Did I Mess Up?
by shallowdweller
Summary: A tribute to the fallen. Her death's impact on the team may take up as many as 5 more short chapters. Tissues strongly advised. Rest in Peace, Agent Michelle Vega.
1. Chapter 1

**Vega**

I find myself on the floor, unable to rise, trying hard to block out the pain from my middle. Don't know exactly how it happened. Did I black out? Did the third suspect... assailant... already get away? Oh, God, what if he went after Cho? And I couldn't even give him back-up?

More gunshots. It hurts to move. To breathe. All I can do is pray.

_Pray for us... now and in the hour of our death..._

There are people milling about; I look up at horrified faces. Some take one look and quickly disappear. Others seem unable to look away. At least it seems that I am the only major attraction in the room. Thankfully my escapee at least didn't target any of the witnesses. Nobody seems to know what to do. I try to raise my voice, tell them to call 911. But I can't seem to breathe right. Did I lose a lung? I'm terrified to probe my own body. It hurts too much to think, to feel exactly where I was hit.

Then I hear his voice. Firm, calm, authoritative. His sure footsteps approaching. Oh, thank God. He's okay. The sound of people moving out of the way. And then I see him. After a few months of working with him, I can recognize dismay on that impassive face. He tries to hide it. Doesn't want to scare me.

Too late. I was scared already. His stoicism is oddly comforting. But it might be already too late.

"Call 911. Tell them officer down." His brisk direction takes his attention from me for the briefest of moments. He always knows what to do. He'll be such a good team leader. God, I want to see that.

I should have called it in. There are probably a million things I should have done. I'm barely coherent as he approaches, lifts me (oh, God, it hurts) to his lap and reassures me that help is on the way. Tells me to keep breathing. It's harder than it should be. Following that basic instruction. He must know, because he keeps saying it.

"I need you to calm down. This is going to hurt." The pressure releases the strangled yell that I've been trying to hold back. Through my agonized squint, I see pain on his face too. It must be hard. He must feel helpless. I sure do.

His hand stays warm on my belly. Trying to staunch the blood. It isn't working. I can feel the ebb. I grit my teeth. He's trying to save my life. The least I can do is not show him how much it hurts.

"...I know..." he keeps up a steady stream of comforting nonsense, words like "you're okay." We both know I'm not. But I might survive. If I don't lose too much blood. If they get here quick enough. Meanwhile, his voice is so gentle. It keeps a steady flow, like the life bleeding out of me. I don't think I've ever heard him talk so much before.

I think of Wylie. Even if I do make it, we won't be doing dinner anytime soon. Maybe a rain check. Please, God, give me a rain check.

But there's something else. Something important. The men we were supposed to catch. Did they get away? "Where are they," I ask him.

"They're on their way." He thinks I mean the medics.

He doesn't understand.

"It hurts..." I can't tell how much is the physical pain. How much is the shame.

They got away. We didn't get our back-up. He's here with me. So they got away. We lost them. I wanted to make him proud. My Dad, too. I want to be a good agent. I do good work, don't I? Did I do my duty? Did I do it right?

I need to know. "Did I mess up?"

"No. No, you did good. Ok? You did good. Yeah..." His smile is almost a grimace of pain. He never smiles. I wanted to see that smile so many times. I wanted him to be glad that he worked with me. To tell me it was worth it, giving me a second chance. This isn't how I wanted it, but I'll take it. Even if he's just saying it to be kind. If I really had messed up, he wouldn't tell me that. Not now.

Right now he's happy with me if I just keep breathing. In. Out. It feels like even that is too hard.

"Michelle..." So gentle. Like my Dad. When I was a kid, my Dad could do anything. Then I watched him waste away. Hardest thing I ever did. Harder than dying myself.

I wonder if that's how it feels for Cho?

"Michelle! Hey! Just keep breathing..." The way he says it, I know he has raised his voice. It's a command. Firm. Authoritative. But I can hardly hear it. He's fading out. No matter how hard it is, I want to obey. I want to. Don't know if I can. Keep trying.

The world fades to black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Cho**

Abbott thinks that I don't see him watching me. That's fine. I'd rather not have the "how are you doing?" conversation now.

He knows what I'm going through. He's had agents under his command die. What good would it do to compare notes?

He'd like to spare me. To make the call to the next of kin. To give me some space before the other investigative team moves in. But I know what I need. Focusing on the work keeps me from sinking. Emotions like grief, pity, anger, guilt, they can drag you under. Sap your energy. Make it hard to think straight. I need to think about my duty, my actions now. I can't fix the past.

Of course, that doesn't stop me from reviewing it. Obsessively. I tell myself that I can learn from it, avoid similar mistakes in the future. But the thing is, I don't see any mistakes. Everything I did was according to protocol. To the best of my knowledge, her actions were exemplary, as well. We did our job. We followed safety precautions. We protected the civilians. Took every reasonable step to be safe ourselves. There were no legitimate, reasonable, honorable steps that would have changed the outcome.

I did the best that I knew how. We both did. And it still ended with Vega's death.

It is a leadership lesson that I wish I could have learned some other way. But maybe there is no easy way to learn this one. I would have said that I already knew that death is part of the job.

Knowing it and feeling it are two different things.

But even beyond the loss, the feeling of responsibility and guilt (even though I know fault cannot be laid here) something nags at me. Something that I know I must deal with. Something that could have a profound influence over my leadership role. My whole life, even. It's hard to put it into words. I should examine it more closely. But I keep putting it off.

I'd rather remember her as she was that morning. Something had changed for her. She was less guarded, more playful. Teasing me. At the time, it was annoying. Like a pesky younger sibling, or a tag-along puppy. But it was solid and soothing in a way, too. Like when Rigsby finally got comfortable with our working relationship, figured out what our partnership was about. Maybe that was it. Vega was finally sure of me. Sure of herself.

Damn. This isn't helping me stay cool, either. That or there's something in my eyes.

Usually I don't let emotions get the better of me. But sometimes its just too much to hold in. Like when I was with her at the end. What she said.

"Did I mess up?"

I get that. It made perfect sense to me, why she asked that. If it had been me...

If only it could have been me...

I knew what she needed to hear. And it was true, too. Vega had the makings of a fine agent. Tough, no nonsense, fierce and firm. She followed the rules, except when bending them made sense. She was loyal and compassionate. She would have been like Lisbon, like Van Pelt. She already was, but for the years of experience.

So I tried to tell her. I tried to show her. She deserved to see that I was proud of her, that it wasn't her fault, that working with her was good. That she had made a difference. It came out stilted. My face distorted with grief. I wish that I could have done better than that. Given the circumstances, though, I wasn't strong enough.

I guess it was to be expected.

Here it is. The lesson I've been searching for. And running from. Here's where I messed up. Here's what I need to do better next time:

She shouldn't have had to ask. She should have already known how glad I was to work with her. I should have told her. Even made the effort to show it with my face. That doesn't come easy to me. I resist showing my personal reactions. It won't help morale, though, if my team doesn't know how much I value them. Abbott is good at that, but he won't be here much longer.

Jane.

Jane can help me figure out when and how to do it. How to get comfortable with nonverbal affirmation. Make it more natural. So that the people I work with never have to wonder if they matter to me. If they're doing their jobs well. If I care.

I'll make time to ask him about it. After the funeral.

It make my team more effective.

It will save me more regrets.


	3. Chapter 3

**Jane**

I look out over a vast chasm, beautiful and desolate. Except for the beauty, it could be my heart.

I tried for ten years to fill it with vengeance. But it was still just as empty when Red John was dead. Maybe more so. I had nothing left but a gaping absence where once there was love, and work, and purpose. And dead is dead. Red John suffered far less over my loss than I did, and it's still not over. He continues to torture me, even after more than two years in his grave.

Loving Lisbon was a desperate grab for life and meaning. It was dizzying and terrifying, like standing on the very edge of this precipice. Wondering if one wrong step would send me into oblivion. But it made me feel alive in ways I hadn't dared feel for 12 years. The emotions I had hidden for so long, in the depths of my aching void, ran deeper than a river, swift and wild and fierce, unstoppable once I allowed myself to acknowledge them.

But if the love was too hard to hold back, the fear was impossible. It was my constant companion. At first the joy of being loved again drowned out the subtle sound of a cold whisper. _This, too, could be taken from me._ I ignored it while I could. _This can't be what she really wants._ I shut it down cold. _You're broken, you have nothing to give her but a hollow husk._ I threw myself into my work. _She could die at any time._ I began looking for a way to escape. _What if you aren't there when she needs you?_

_You are only holding her back. _

_You are making her crazy. _

_You will lose her. _

_She won't choose you. _

_You aren't good for her._

These weren't the taunts of an enemy. This was my own mind attacking me. I have learned to trust my own judgment. When an idea is so clear and consistent in my thoughts, I'm usually right. Could I decide not to listen just because it wasn't what I wanted to hear?

What started as whispers became a constant cacophany in my head, and all my working and loving and teasing and playing could not quite drown it out. The nightmares resumed, intensified. If she was right next to me, her touch would hold the horrors at bay. But even when I was awake, the images never slept. All the things that almost went wrong played out in many disastrous variations in my imagination. All the things that could possibly go wrong. Mistakes I could make. The unforeseen accident. The momentary lack of attention. An enemy. Friendly fire. Malice, carelessness, mere chance, fate... anything could work against me. Anything could take her away from me. I'm just a man. No matter how clever I am, no matter how carefully I plan, I am not infallible. I make mistakes. It has cost me dearly before, it could again.

I could not ignore my instinctive need to protect her. I could see how it undermined my own rationality and clarity of thought, but I was helpless against my own inner turmoil.

Even if I could stop worrying over her safety, would that bring peace? Or fatal complacency?

And if I could not, would the growing anxiety become so intense that it would drive her away from me?

Then she caught me. Meddling. Interfering with her work. The stillness of her face didn't hide the fury. She would never run. This was her job. She loved what she did. She was good at it. And I was making it harder.

I told her that we would work it out. Not really believing, but willing it to be so. To lose her was unthinkable. I had already proven to myself that life with out Teresa would be beyond bearing. But for once I could find no workable plan. Nothing that wouldn't hurt or alienate her. Nothing that would not prolong my agonized terror.

When the call came from Abbott, I knew that it was beyond me.

Racing to the hospital with her was surreal. Reassuring myself that whatever happened to Vega, at least my Teresa was near, and safe. She let me drive so that she could pray. She held back tears as she mouthed the words, touching the cross at her neck, rocking slightly as though in pain. I wanted to hold her and tell her it would be alright, even though I didn't believe it.

The desperate dash to her room. Abbott's grim face, his rigid posture. Cho's open misery. The cold pallor of Michelle's skin.

And then watching my Teresa's stricken face as it crumpled into grief.

_If I were the one who died, it would be even worse._

It hit me then that no matter what happened, one or the other of us would one day face this loss. I could not even think of living through it again. But could I condemn her to the fate I dread above all else?

_I should have let her go with Pike._

But hadn't I made her happy?

_She could have been happy with him. Not the same happiness. But not the same fear, either._

Later, she raised the subject of the afterlife with me for the first time. She doesn't talk about things like that, although I know her beliefs are deeply important to her. Her voice betrayed a hint of doubt as she asked if I thought her foolish because she needed to believe.

Had I shaken her confidence, sullied her one source of comfort, with my unbelief?

For a moment I wished hard that I could believe, too, that Michelle Vega was somewhere nice, maybe talking to Angela and Charlotte, telling them what mischief I'd been up to in their absence.

I couldn't. Worse, I knew what that meant to Lisbon. Because Catholics don't believe that everyone goes just "someplace." They believe in Heaven and Hell. Peace with God forever for the faithful. For those who reject God, eternal torment. If anyone deserves that (Red John springs immediately to mind) I do. Teresa might think otherwise, but because I refuse to believe, she will always have cause for doubt. For me to die would not just make her grieve from missing me. It would make her wonder if I were eternally lost to her, suffering beyond help. Would that thought be enough to spoil her hope of paradise?

Numb, I went through the motions to bring closure to this nightmare. For the first time since my fear started to consume me, I felt calm, lucid. Had I been sleep walking all this time? Now I was awake. And I could see that I hadn't the strength to continue this. I had to make it through until the weekend, and we would run. And never look back. And maybe finally we could be at peace.

No. There was no peace for me. She was ready to put herself in danger yet again, and I could not allow it. Given the choice, I was willing to risk my own death and all that it meant to her, rather than to risk what her death would mean to me.

Because my dying doesn't hurt me. And I won't be around to see what it does to her.

That's how much my love is worth.

So here I am. Looking into the abyss. I hadn't the courage to deal with how badly I've messed up. By building my life around a hollow vengeance. By grasping for love and peace at Teresa's expense. By not being strong enough to address and overcome my fears. By proving once and for all that my own pain matters more to me than the pain of those I love.

I asked her to come with me, but I knew that she would not. Because the pain of others matters to her. Enough to share it with them. As she has so often shared mine.

The canyon is big. A person could get lost here. A body might never be found. The oblivion I crave would be all too easy to find.

But something holds me back.

The same thing that stayed my hand when I held the gun over the body of my dead tormenter. I never meant to outlive him by much. I deserved death more than he did. Because I had already suffered enough.

But so had Lisbon.

After all that she had done for me, keeping me going, helping my hunt, could I repay her trust by leaving her with my death on her conscience?

No. And if I couldn't then, before I knew the taste of her lips and the warmth of her body against mine, before telling her how much I love her and hearing her say it in return, how could I hurt her now?

The phone rings. Again. I know that it's her before I even look at it. But I still can't answer. I am ashamed of my foolishness. Of wallowing in despair. Of entertaining, even for the briefest moment, the idea of not going back to her.

It would be the worst in a long list of horrendous mistakes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Abbott**

The bullpen feels like a morgue.

The empty desk draws and repels focus, according to how each team member grieves. Wiley casts furtive glances that occasionally turn into vacant stares as he tunes out everything but his new grief. Cho subtly orients himself elsewhere, his face and posture stiffer and more grim even than usual.

And Lisbon...

She appears to be very focused on her work, but I know better. She has a harder job than most, because she has two focal points for her grief. The empty desk, and the empty couch.

She has avoided the topic of Jane's absence as much as she feels that she can. In other words, as much as I let her. She says that he's "working through" some things. But I can see in her tension that she isn't entirely okay with how he is handling it. Her evasions reveal her uncertainty. She isn't even sure that he will come back of his own free will.

I am so glad that I can pretend not to know this.

On the other hand, I can find no comfort in the thought that soon it will no longer be my problem. Professionally speaking, that is. Cho will take over as supervising agent, and I will move to the DC office.

But my gut tells me that it's my mess, and I ought to take some responsibility for cleaning it up.

I should have known that dropping my guard was dangerous. In fact, I did know. I was trained to believe that you keep the private and the professional strictly separate. Less messy. Fewer distractions. But ever since Jane came, I have had to adjust for his style. It meant trying things that were not strictly according to regulations. And there was little point in maintaining professional distance with a man who seems to pluck your thoughts right out of the air and publish them in the most annoying way possible.

Opening up was worth the risk, I decided, because the job became that much more productive and enjoyable when I went with the flow. I maintained just enough reserve to preserve my authority and keep my team out of trouble.

Otherwise, I let myself be human and approachable. To my unit, at least. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

And now the office has been drained of its energy, every team member mired in their own unique blend of survivor's guilt, loss, and emotional turmoil. Because Wylie has essentially lost not just a team mate but his first love. (I encouraged that. Was that a bad move on my part?) Cho feels responsible for Vega's loss, and it has shaken his confidence about his leadership. He's still processing that. I can see how much more emotional he is, even under his typical stoicism.

And again, Lisbon. I knew when Jane insisted that she be included in his team that he carried a torch for her. I had suspected since the disassembly of the CBI that Lisbon was infatuated with him. Tried everything that I could think of to avoid that potential train wreck. And finally gave in. With predictable results. In spite of its professional success, my team developed the personal drama of a poorly written soap opera. My attempts to steer it towards a positive resolution were ineffective at best. I breathed a sigh of relief when it seemed that they had finally resolved it between themselves. Nor did I mind when the two decided to keep their relationship... well, secret would be putting it too strongly. Quiet might be about right. Whatever the office gossips said about it, they had to make up from fairly scant evidence into threadbare speculations that didn't hold much interest.

At least, not to anyone whose professional reputation didn't depend upon their relationship's continued success.

But while I admit to being somewhat of a romantic at heart, I knew better than to suppose that "true love" would fix the worst of the conflicts between Jane and Lisbon. I've been married too long to think that romance is a magic formula for solving all life's problems. And if anything, sexual involvement is more of a complicating factor than the panacea that popular fiction makes of it. It takes bone deep commitment and continual effort to sustain even the best of relationships.

Whether either party had what it took to make that attempt was something I had to take on faith. After all, what choice did I really have?

I know exactly how useless it would have been to forbid interoffice dating.

So perhaps this was not something I could have avoided.

Even in the midst of this crisis, I must acknowledge that the very attempt would have been wrong headed. Would I want to be responsible for a team that was not emotionally involved enough to feel it deeply when its newest member was killed? The fact that we care for one another makes us a better unit. Certainly I can only be grateful that every member of the team, including Vega, stuck their necks out so that Lena and I would not be smeared and undermined for the purposes of political power and vengeance.

Wasn't my biggest regret in the wake of Vega's death that I hadn't taken time to speak to her personally that day? If that's the worst thing I had on my conscience in this instance, I'm doing pretty well. And a man who wishes to be more involved with the people he works with... I can't help but feel that such a man is to be admired. Even envied. Whatever the FBI training protocols say.

But I'm still not in the clear. A healthy sense of loss in this office can be worked through. But what is happening with Jane is not a healthy response to loss. There's no question that the man is passionately in love. But instead of sharing his grief with Lisbon, he heads for the hills. I don't think it's a lack of commitment. The man spent 10 years hunting down his late wife's killer, and still wears her ring. It seems to me that the reason he left is that he lacks the coping skills to face further loss. And I should have seen that coming.

I can't even fathom the trauma he must have endured from the death of his wife and daughter. I spent enough effort investigating him and his team in the wake of the Blake Association that I know something of the emotional toll it took. I know he spent some time in an institution. Suicidal tendencies and vengeance may be very natural initial responses to the horror that he endured. Had I been in his shoes, I can't imagine responding better. Can't imagine it at all, it hurts to think about. The fact that Jane worked through it and came out passing for sane is remarkable. But his approach didn't help him build meaning and resilience that would last in the long term. So when he faces death like this, he bolts.

And who knows what's been going on beneath that calm, cool facade since he and Lisbon got together? He never let on, but the idea of Lisbon's death had to have crossed his mind several times over the past few months since Miami. Perhaps this escape response has been building up since then. Perhaps it was only a matter of time until something had to give.

When I first brought Jane back to the states, having him disappear this way was reason to hunt him down and lock him up. I know better, now. I should never have sought him out under these circumstances. Forced him to perform, continually exposed him to death and ugliness. He's done enough for the greater good, and under the worst of circumstances. How can I, in good conscience, allow him to continue to be exploited for talents that have already cost him far too much?

Cho understands this. I'll make sure to encourage him to let the agreement slide, if it is necessary for Jane's well-being. The higher-ups might not like it. He can put the blame on me, if necessary. Meanwhile, I owe Lisbon, too. Sure, I helped to reunite her with the man she loves. But I delivered him in worse shape than I found him.

So she can use this case as an excuse to get him back here. I think he will have to work this out with her eventually, but the need of the team might help make that sooner rather than later. And whatever happens between them after that, I will not let the FBI be a factor. If they can find some peace out of all this, then I will have eased my conscience.


End file.
